


Lunar Eclipse at Our Fingertips

by redeyedwrath



Series: Merthur Ficlets [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Banter, Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Pining Arthur, Set around S1/S2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 22:02:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12177375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeyedwrath/pseuds/redeyedwrath
Summary: "There are a lot of details about Merlin that Arthur only notices after — after a year or so. Usually, Arthur registers these things and promptly forgets about them. And yet, there’s one thing Arthur can't seem to stop thinking about: the little freckles dotting the lines of Merlin’s nose."In which, Merlin has freckles and Arthur isn't obsessed with them (He isn't, he swears!)





	Lunar Eclipse at Our Fingertips

**Author's Note:**

> Right hi hello Merlin fandom!!!! It's me, Isaac, and I am writing Merthur fic now. Those who follow me on Tumblr aren't surprised probably, considering my blog's content went from 100% Sterek to 50% Sterek and 50% Merthur this year, but to those who don't follow me, hi ^^ 
> 
> Um, I hope you guys like this? This is my first Merthur fic and although [unelore](http://unelore.tumblr.com) has beta'd for me and assured me this is very cute, I'm very nervous you guys will think it's either OOC or just plain bad :p 
> 
> Also, this is set in a nebulous canon time where everything is fluffy and nothing hurts (Season 5? What season 5????) And I know that Colin Morgan does not have freckles BUT LISTEN. A MAN CAN DREAM ALRIGHT.

_Midnight mumbles but I'm distracted_  
_I like the way that you reacted_  
_A lunar eclipse at our fingertips_  
_Never had a moment that was quite like this_

**\- Freckes and Constellations, Dodie Clark**

—

 

There are a lot of details about Merlin that Arthur only notices after — after a year or so. They're harmless things, mostly, like the thin scar on Merlin’s forearm and the way he tends to tangle his fingers in the hem of his shirt, the frayed fabric practically translucent. Usually, Arthur registers these things and promptly forgets about them. After all, there’s no reason for Arthur to actually remember these things.

And yet, there’s one thing Arthur can't seem to stop thinking about: the little freckles dotting the lines of Merlin’s nose.

It’s foolish; they’re hardly there. Arthur has to squint to even see them, though he does that without fail, because he can’t _not_. The most infuriating thing is that Merlin is catching on — Arthur can pretend the first time is an accident, and so on, but after it’s been happening for two weeks, Merlin starts to wonder why.

“Are you okay?” he asks, only half-joking. Arthur can see how worried Merlin is in the way the skin between his eyebrows creases. “You’ve been distracted lately.”

Arthur sighs, and turns his ring around his thumb again and again to distract himself. God, he doesn’t know when this started, but he really needs it to stop. “Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin. I’ve never been fitter.”

Something drops on the ground with a clang, and Arthur sighs again, covering his face with his hands. He honestly doesn’t know why he still keeps Merlin around after a year; he’s never had to find so many replacement for _anything_ in his possessions. Merlin’s tendency to drop things should be infuriating — and in many ways, it is — but it’s also… endearing, Arthur supposes.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he barely hears Merlin’s raucous laughter echo through the room. He glances up, affronted, only to realise that Merlin has come a lot closer and Arthur — Arthur can see the freckles again. There are a lot of them, painting little, almost invisible constellations on the bridge of Merlin’s nose, and Arthur has to clench his hand around his chair to restrain himself from reaching out and touching them.

“I’m sure you are, Arthur,” Merlin says, bright smile on his face and a dimple in his cheek, and pats Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur’s hand shoots out without permission and lands — thank God — on the safe territory of Merlin’s arm. The skin is warm even through the scratchy fabric, and Arthur hands itch with the desire to touch it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he huffs with as much indignation as he can muster. He deliberately tightens his grip on Merlin’s arm until he can feel the bones shifting under the skin. His fingers dig in where he knows the thin scar that stretches from his wrist to his elbow lies, and he relaxes just a bit. Not enough to make Merlin suspicious, but enough to keep the strain off the tissue.

“Nothing, nothing!” Merlin says, throwing his free hand up, and raising his eyebrows, his face the epitome of mocking innocence. Arthur’s heart skips a beat. “It’s just, you haven’t exactly been sparring with the knights a lot recently, have you?”

That — that hits a little too close to home. It’s not like Arthur hadn’t expected Merlin to catch on to his lack of training, Merlin is with him nearly every second of the day after all, but Arthur hadn’t expected him to ask about it. A foolish notion, because Merlin is one of the most meddlesome people Arthur’s ever seen, constantly fussing over everyone but himself. Yet, Arthur isn’t ready to talk about it because he doesn’t _want_ Merlin to know.

“I was — mentally preparing for the upcoming tournament.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow, his arms crossed and mouth turned up — disbelief, then. Arthur doesn’t blame him; his excuse was flimsy at best. “Don’t you need to prepare physically for a tournament? What with you knights all bashing each other’s skulls in.”

“There’s a lot more to being a knight than ‘bashing people’s skulls in’, _Mer_ lin. It requires honour, and strategy, and careful yet quick thinking. Not that I’d expect you to know anything of that.”

“I’ll have you know I do more careful yet quick thinking than you realise.”

“I’m sure you do, Merlin,” Arthur says, echoing Merlin’s words from earlier, and something in his chest flares when he watches Merlin’s face flare with indignation. “I’ll be on my way to physically preparing myself now.” Merlin’s eyebrows raise in reaction and Arthur suddenly gets the idea to maybe just… tip over the goblet of water on the table. It clatters to the ground with a satisfying clang, but Merlin’s open-mouthed, angry stare makes something in Arthur’s stomach with pleasure and — and something he isn’t going to dwell on but feels an awful lot like guilt. “Have fun cleaning that up, _Mer_ lin.”

He only just hears Merlin’s mutter of, “I’ll physically prepare you, you royal arse,” as he walks out of his chambers. Deciding to let it go, just this once, he walks on, trying to focus on the echoing sound of his footsteps instead of Merlin’s indignation — or worse, those _freckles_.

For the first time in a while, Arthur walks out onto the training fields with a grin on his face.

—

It’s a few days later — two, maybe three — when Merlin directly addresses Arthur’s unfortunate obsession. They’re alone in Arthur’s chambers again, Merlin doing some menial task, always hovering on the edge of Arthur’s vision. As if it wasn’t distracting enough to constantly be _thinking_ about Merlin, Merlin’s apparently decided that it’s imperative to be in Arthur’s presence at all times.

As a direct result of that however, Merlin has had a lot more time to observe Arthur as well. And though Arthur may have thought him to be dimwitted when they first met, he’s long since learned that appearances can be deceptive — especially in Merlin’s case.

“They don’t really get darker in the summer,” Merlin says, sleeves rolled up and hair tousled from scrubbing the floor. Arthur is torn between wanting to run his fingers through it to mess it up even more or to clean it up. He’s so distracted by watching the muscles play in Merlin’s forearms, that he forgets to reply to Merlin’s question.

Hoping his blush isn’t too obvious, and trying to cover it up by putting his cheek in his hand, he asks, “What are you talking about, Merlin?”

“My freckles?” Merlin says, pointing to them with his eyebrows raised. Arthur swallows, looks away. “They don’t get darker.”

There’s an awkward silence after that, filled only with the sound of their breathing and the drops falling from the cloth in Merlin’s hand. Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, because admitting it to Merlin would mean admitting he has… _feelings_ , of some sort. Which he definitely doesn’t.

“Why on earth would I want to know if your freckles get darker or not?” Arthur replies. Merlin interrupting his work to talk with Arthur is always inevitable — God knows why Arthur still keeps him around — but Arthur would’ve preferred it if Merlin had bothered him about something else than those damned freckles.

Because yes, Arthur _does_ want to know if those freckles get darker or not. He wants to know if they ever completely disappear, and whether they get covered up by Merlin’s blushes. He wants to know _what_ makes Merlin blush for that matter, if Arthur could turn his face a bright red with just a few well-placed flattering comments, or if the glide of Arthur’s fingertips down Merlin’s arm would do the trick, or if those fingers have to touch elsewhere before —

Biting the inside of his cheek, Arthur breaks their staring match.

“You tell me; you’re the one who’s been staring at them for two minutes,” Merlin says, dropping the cloth back into the bucket. He stands up, completely stopping with his chore of cleaning the floors in favour of looking inquisitively at Arthur. Arthur taps his fingers on the table in a nonsensical rhythm, trying to come up with a suitable excuse.

“I was —” he starts at first, then clearing his throat. God, there’s no way he can make anything sound even remotely believable. Merlin raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “I was just surprised you even had them. They’re uncharacteristically ladylike and delicate.”

Merlin scoffs. “I’m ladylike? You’re the one who spends ten minutes every morning looking at yourself in the mirror.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur sinks a little deeper into his chair, slouching in a way his father definitely wouldn’t approve of. He’s grateful for the change in subject, certainly — anything is better than paying more attention to those spots dotting Merlin’s face — but he would prefer to talk about something… less loaded. Sword fighting perhaps. Or the fact that Merlin still isn’t doing his damned chores.

“Well, a prince has to look princely, doesn’t he?” Arthur says, because if there’s one thing he’s not, it’s _delicate_. He’s a prince for God’s sake, a _knight_. Knights aren’t delicate.

“Right,” Merlin says, nodding, not even trying to hide his smile. Arthur frowns and presses on.

“And I’m hardly delicate, am I?”

“Oh, I don’t know… Not with the way the serving girls seem to fawn over your _precious cheekbones_ and _perfectly-shaped lips_.” Merlin’s voice tilts upward on the last part of the sentence, the tone squeaky and high-pitched in a crude imitation of the serving girls. Arthur hopes his blush isn’t too obvious — he’s been hearing these things since he’s been old enough to understand them, but hearing _Merlin_ say it, however jocular it may be, makes something swirl around in Arthur’s gut.

Scraping his nerves together, he asks, “Are you sure you’re not just projecting, Merlin?”

He flinches. His voice is too harsh, too revealing for him to feel comfortable right now. Merlin’s eyes narrow a bit, focusing in on whatever Arthur is showing him right now, and Arthur curses. He reminds himself, again, that appearances are deceiving as far as Merlin is concerned. And then, instead of doing what he’s assigned to do, Merlin walks closer to where Arthur is sitting, close enough so that Arthur can… can _see them_.

“Of course not,” Merlin says, his fingernail scraping over the wooden surface of the table. Arthur’s not sure if he’s imagining the pink spots high on Merlin’s cheekbones or if they’re real. “Despite my apparently ladylike freckles, I’m not a serving girl.”

And Arthur, because he can’t seem to leave anything about Merlin alone, stupidly says, “It’s not unheard of boys liking other boys, Merlin.”

Seeing Merlin’s eyes widen and his lips part fills Arthur with both a strange sense of satisfaction and the sinking feeling of dread. Merlin looks _shocked_ , his spine slowly straightening, and Arthur digs his fingernails into his palm. He should’ve just kept his mouth shut.

“I finally rendered you speechless,” Arthur says with a joy he doesn’t feel, his voice tight. Merlin looks away, composing himself. “We should celebrate this joyous occasion.”

Slowly backing away, Merlin inclines his head in an uncharacteristic display of obeisance, his hands held neatly behind his back. Something in Arthur recoils at the sight. Merlin has never been obedient in his _life_ , always teasing Arthur and slacking off on his chores and _calling Arthur by his actual name_. It’s infuriating and improper and… and Arthur likes him that way.

“If you wish, Sire.”

Trying to come up with an excuse to get Merlin to come back, to stop him from being so… _that_ , Arthur says, “Merlin, I—”

“Yes?” Merlin asks when Arthur doesn’t continue. His expression is guarded and he won’t look Arthur in the eye, instead staring at something over Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur sighs. It might just be better if… if Merlin leaves.

“Never mind. Off you go.”

“Of course, Sire,” Merlin says, face closed off and indifferent, and it makes Arthur uncomfortable. Merlin’s always been a person who wears his heart on his sleeve and seeing him so… so _placid_ is unnatural.

He keeps staring at the door long after Merlin’s closed it behind. Something must be done about this ridiculous obsession of his.

—

Arthur’s favourite freckle is on the right side of Merlin’s neck, peeking just above the edge of his neckerchiefs. It lies precisely above the tendon of muscle that tenses whenever Merlin tilts his head, and when he does, Arthur can almost delude himself into thinking Merlin’s offering himself up. It makes him want to _bite_.

He often wonders if there are other freckles beneath those neckerchiefs, ones that seldom see the light of day, and thus, ones that Arthur’s rarely ever sees. He finds himself fantasising about coming up with excuses that would force Merlin to take those garish pieces of cloth off from around his neck, letting Arthur look his fill.

Though those fantasies often seem to end in either him above Merlin or Merlin above him, so lately, Arthur’s taken to ignoring those.

It’s one of those days where he indulges himself in a similar fantasy where it all comes to a head. He was probably staring a little too intensely — intensely enough to distract Merlin from whatever it is that he’s supposed to be doing, though that’s always relatively easy — his eyes a little too dark and hungry. He’s seen the expression on himself in the mirror. It… it does not look subtle.

He’s just watching Merlin hover around the room, picking up randomly discarded articles of clothing that Arthur would never admit he threw on the ground on purpose, when Merlin lets out a frustrated sigh. Trying to cover up his probably less than overt staring, he immediately looks away, instead picking up an apple up from the bowl in front of him and inspecting it for bad spots.

But Merlin, instead of taking the cue that he should carry on and ignore Arthur’s behaviour, drops the clothing on one of the cupboards in his room. Arthur’s focused on Merlin’s footsteps, slowly coming closer and closer and for some reason, Arthur’s heart is pounding in his throat and he feels like he’s going to be ill.

When Merlin comes to a halt he’s standing so close to Arthur, _so close_ , and Arthur can almost feel Merlin’s body heat. He clenches his hand around the apple he’s holding, bruising it slightly. He sees Merlin’s fingers tangle in the fabric of his sleeves, twisting and turning them before he takes a deep breath — inhale, exhale, then again a few times until his fingers stop and he —

He places them on Arthur’s forearm.

The pads of Merlin’s fingers are rough from labour, and they’re warm, so warm that it feels like they’re going to burn a hole through his skin. Arthur reflexively drops the apple, and it lands on the table with a dull thud. His fingers flex around nothing.

Merlin’s fingers slowly trail up Arthur’s arm, tracing the tendons under his skin carefully, passing by the fragile bones of his wrist until they’re resting in the palm of Arthur’s hand. Arthur shifts in his chair, trying desperately not to show how breathless just the slightest touch of Merlin’s skin to his makes him. He feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin, his heart racing with something unnameable.

There’s a tug, and then another, and then Merlin is drawing his hand upwards. Arthur lets himself be pulled, slowly turning around to face Merlin.

Merlin, whose eyes are dark and so damnably blue, whose cheeks are flushed a bright pink, hiding those freckles, _Merlin_ , who can’t stop licking his lips. Arthur’s breath catches involuntarily. Merlin… Merlin looks… He looks…

And then. _Then_.

He’s — he’s… _touching Merlin’s freckles_. The skin is soft beneath his fingers, and warm and flushed with blood, and it crinkles when he touches the apple of Merlin’s cheek. Merlin’s fingers drop away from his hand and Arthur can’t even bring himself to bemoan their loss because… _because_.

“I,” Arthur says. Stops. Lick his lips. His fingers trail a slow path from cheek to another, over the bridge of Merlin’s nose, and the skin is so _soft_ and, and, _and_ , “I, uh—”

Merlin blinks, his eyelashes sweeping over his cheeks as he shyly looks down. Arthur’s thumb swipes over Merlin’s cheek again, slowly, once, twice, and then Merlin’s hand comes up, covering his, pressing Arthur’s fingers more firmly against the side of his face. Arthur swallows.

Their fingers are nearly tangled.

“So,” Merlin says, and his voice comes out uncharacteristically hoarse, and its low tone makes something heat up in Arthur’s gut. “So, Sire, does this… does this satisfy your curiosity?”

Arthur can’t shake his head fast enough. “No. No, um, I think I’ll need some more demonstration before I’m… satisfied.”

Merlin’s cheek bunches up under his hand as he smiles, Arthur’s fingers resting against the start of his eye crinkles. His eyes twinkle with happiness and something deeper and Arthur doesn’t think he can ever let this go again even if he had to.

“Is that an order?” Merlin asks, a teasing note in his voice, and it makes something in Arthur fill with glee — that Merlin is still being difficult even now that… even _now_.

“I will make it a royal decree if I have to.”

“Well then,” Merlin says, drawing Arthur’s hand away from his cheek. Arthur tries to protest — because he doesn’t want to stop touching him, not now that he finally _can_ — but Merlin just puts it against his lips, giving it a little kiss. His lips linger long after he’s done. “I suppose I can make an exception just this once.”

Arthur smiles. This might be a chore Merlin actually _does_ , for once.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaah I hope you guys liked it ^^ Please let me know what you thought????? I'm very nervous aaaaah
> 
> [My aforementioned Tumblr, where I post about Sterek and Merthur, for those who are interested ^^](http://nerdderek.tumblr.com)


End file.
